The
dream haunted her all morning. It was one of those vivid dreams that are
remembered clearly, and that linger throughout the day with mild attacks of
flashbacks. She felt the intrusive remnants of last night’s images, like a stubborn
hangover that refuses to leave, jolting her body with swift pangs of pain; it
wore her down physically, mentally. She poured the black coffee into her cup,
as if to purge the feeling away, and sat down at the head of the long wooden
table. She sipped cautiously, both elbows on the table, her hands clasping the
red cup – a gift her daughter had given her two years ago upon returning for
winter break. It tasted bitter – as bitter as that dream. As the coffee cooled
down, her sips became throaty gulps, and she stared forward to that painting of
Carlos Gardel that once belonged to her father. She looked with deep intent at
the man’s broken smile, his handsome brown eyes, and felt prisoner of his gaze.
She began to lose herself in the swirl of that tango song that her dad used to
love. Sitting at the head of the long wooden table, her mind crossed over to
the realm of the past.
Nostaaaaalgias
De
escuchar su risa loca
De
sentir junto a mi boca
Como
un fuego su respiración
She went back to that dreary
September afternoon of 1999. That day she had felt a peculiar anxiety, as if
the air possessed an intolerable secret – a forewarning of sorts, struggling to
be released. Her lifeless eyes looked beyond the half- opened windows of the
car, the scenery of green mountains merging into blurriness. Her husband
clasped the steering wheel with the firm grip of his hands, as he talked about
the forestation of Ponce, but his words were faint nuances that rushed by her,
with the same speed of the cars that they left behind.
The
cat jumped onto the table and flapped its long and lanky tail against her face,
shaking her violently from her trance. She gasped, startled, and extended her
right arm to pet the cat’s orange coat. She stood up with lethargy, and walked
toward the sink to put her cup down. She reached over and retrieved a cigarette
from the carton, sat down at the head of the table, and slid the marbled
ashtray to her side. She lit her cigarette, and slowly inhaled. The smoke rose
upward in a straight line, and dispersed throughout the dining room in graceful
undulations. Her eyes followed the dancing fumes in amazement, as they carried
her over to the smoldering past.
Anguuuuustias
De
sentirme abandonado
Y
sentir que otro a su lado
Pronto,
pronto le hablará de amor
She flicked her cigarette out the
window as the car swiveled onto the graveled road. They stepped out of the car
and walked toward the house’s entrance, where her mother stood, staring at her with
the same judging eyes that judged her during her youth. “Y papi?” (where’s
daddy), she inquired. Two minutes with her mother were more than enough, and
she was ready to leave, but she wanted her father. She missed his stern, yet
comforting company. They
had not spoken in weeks, and the anticipation, along with the suffocating
presence of her mother, was pushing her patience over the edge. She sat on the
living room’s raggedy sofa, as the three gathered round to make small talk. “Y
papi?,” she wondered.
She
put out her cigarette, tapping it three times against the ashtray. It was a
cloudy morning, and the air was redolent of morning rain. A headache had
started to rip through her temples, so she closed the curtains to hide the daylight
glow, and sat on the leather sofa, pushing her head back and letting a sigh
escape. Her eyes were fixed at the ceiling, following the circling motions of
the fan’s blades, and she spun with them to the warp of the past.
Desde
mi triste soledad
Veré
caer las rosas muertas
De
mi juuuveeentud
Suddenly, with that powerful
presence that he distinctly possessed, her father walked in, and as he sat
down, a realization struck her like a bolt of lightning, leaving her speechless
and afraid. His skin complexion had
turned into a sickly pale yellow, his eyes bulged, and the overwhelming
strength of his body had fumed like the smoke of her newly lit cigarette.
As her mother and husband carried on with
their ordinary conversation, her eyes met and locked with those new bulging
ones of her father. There was nothing that needed to be said. His stare
communicated what he did not communicate to anyone else, and she understood it
all.
She
stood up and slowly walked over to her room, dragging her furry slippers through
the floor. On top of her nightstand was a picture of her father in his army
days – brown-eyed, tall and handsome. She picked it up and dusted it; she had
not held it in years. His eyes locked with hers, and they both smiled, as if
the most important secret was buried within their gaze.
